


Decommissioned

by WinterAssets



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic!Brock Rumlow, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mentions of the Asset, OC Hydra Agents, Protective!Jack Rollins, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Recovering from injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 18:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5507642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterAssets/pseuds/WinterAssets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hydra missions were never for the weak and you had always been able to handle your own. When you’re trying to take aim though at a sniper and you’re not expecting a fucker to pistol whip you into next week, things tend to get a little messy. You don’t even remember what happened afterward. All you remember is a loud ringing in your ears and severe pain, Rollins swearing into his com and hands gripping your cheeks, telling you to 'open your fucking eyes, stay the fuck with us’.</i>
</p><p>**

</p>
<p>Prompt fill for: “i made a deal to save your life and we can never be with each other ever again or else the person i made the deal with is going to kill one of us and make the other watch i’m so sorry it was the only way”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decommissioned

The lights in the room are dim; all turned off except for the night light in the corner that’s giving off entirely too much light. A shiver runs through your body despite the fact that the heater in the corner of the room is on high and the air is so thick that you should honestly be sweltering by now. It doesn’t stop the shudders though as you bury underneath thicker blankets, underneath the layers and try to hide your eyes from even the small amount of light. It was moments like these when you hated that you couldn’t sleep without some sort of light going on around you.

Faintly, you heard the door to the apartment close and you let out a soft groan. It sounded entirely too loud and you pressed your hands over your ears to try and block it out. You needed to work on all of this and it’d only come with time, but right now it was killing you. You wanted to be in a safe, dark, quiet place until all of this blew over. The door to the bedroom carefully opened and you picked up the soft patter of boots. It brought a slight smile to your face, and you could hear him lean his weight against the wall in order to push them off of his feet.

The bed dips on your side and you let out a soft groan as nimble hands carefully pulled them away from your head. His fingers carefully move down your face before he lets out a soft sigh. “You look like fuckin’ shit, you know.”

“Thanks so much, there’s a warm couch waiting for you,” you bark back in response, knowing full well that you don’t mean it. He seems to know it as well; it’s all apart of it and you wince because you and Brock just _don’t_ fight. Not unless it’s sparring in training or something of the like, anyway. When you come home, you leave Hydra at the door and this becomes something entirely too innocent and almost home like.

You yell at him for leaving his shit everywhere, including his boots and his fucking _gun_ because _‘Brock anyone can fucking break in and use it’_. He yells back at you that you didn’t do the dishes and you _'seriously are worse than the boys’_. It’s all this cycle the second you both are in the home. Then you’re grabbing two glasses of whiskey and sitting next to him, passing it over and leaning into his side as his arm winds around you and the television flickers on, the news running past it in waves.

It’s almost like you’re both a normal couple, that you didn’t meet with a punch to the face and a kick to his bad knee inside of a Hydra base. It’s like you two can make up a story of running into one another at a diner or maybe even a gym, and just go from there because that’s what it feels like. You both feel horribly domestic in your roles, and that was your only stipulation to signing onto a lease with him; you wanted this to be a real relationship, not just some relationship where you both fuck and talk about work. Brock had backed you against the wall and kissed you until you were lightheaded and gasping for air, laughing as he shoved a pen into your hands to sign away on the beginning of your lives.

He’s a hard ass, both at the base and even here when he needs to be. It’s something that the Navy SEALS have burned into his brain and you let him be that way because you’re not here to change someone. So you deal with the mood swings and the screaming matches, know better when he’s got his hand on his phone and calling the boys to go out than to interrupt. He comes back to you all the time, and that’s good enough for you. There’s never vindication behind the screaming matches or the accusations; it’s his inner demons working and you can recognize that. You don’t give him the fight he’s looking for ever; you just let him scream it out until he’s in a heap on the couch, exhausted and holding his arms out for something _real_ away from it all.

There’s always this ending feeling when you finally curl up in his lap and his arm drapes around your waist, his lips pressing to your forehead and mumbling if you want to break open a bottle of wine. It’s something that’s purely a relationship – there’s no ties to any organization and he’s not a mercenary who graduated with higher digs than the rest of his crew.

A soft laugh falls from his lips before he grabs your jaw, carefully tilting your head toward him. You let out a groan, pushing at his shoulders and protesting the movement of your head. He makes a small reassuring noise, and you let out a groan as his thumb grazes the edge of your bruised skin covering your eye. A soft _'fuck’_ falls from his lips before he presses his lips to your forehead. “At least you can see out of it now. How’s the headache?”

“Still there,” you mumble halfheartedly, letting him pull you into his chest and letting your head lull into his forearm. It feels safe and comforting, your cheek feeling flush against his warm skin. Your nose nuzzles at the spot and you let out a careful breath, trying to steady yourself as that familiar nausea runs through your system. “I swear, the next mother fucker who hits me with a gun is going to get it wedged so far up his ass he’ll never walk the same.”

“Easy there tiger,” Brock replies easily with a grin in his voice. You swat at him but the simple motion has you sucking in a sharp breath, Brock’s hands quickly bending you over the bed. It comes up before you can stop it and you’re shuddering through another nausea attack. “See? Got yourself all fuckin’ worked up for _that_.”

The blood rushes to your head as you lay there for a moment, Brock’s hand firm on the back of your neck and on your lower back. You let yourself lull into the warmth as you let out a slow, careful breath. It’s the slight bit of control that you practically need from the commanding officer, usually in different circumstances but it helps nonetheless. It’s like he’s a grounding mechanism that’s helping you through the horrible concussion.

Hydra missions were never for the weak and you had always been able to handle your own. When you’re trying to take aim though at a sniper and you’re not expecting a fucker to pistol whip you into next week, things tend to get a little messy. You don’t even remember what happened afterward. All you remember is a loud ringing in your ears and severe pain, Rollins swearing into his com and hands gripping your cheeks, telling you to _'open your fucking eyes, stay the fuck with us’_. You had tried, but in the long run, the pain had won it’s way out and you had blacked out.

You had woken up on the extraction jet, the room spinning and nausea creeping up your stomach. Both Rollins and Jenner were at each of your sides, an annoying flashlight shining into your eye as you tried to bat it all away. Rollins had grabbed your wrist and yanked it back down, a warm, sticky substance staining your skin from his. A loud yelp slipped from your lips as you felt the familiar burn of antiseptic, and it made your stomach crawl at the fact that you couldn’t see out of the eye that Jenner was tending to. Your breath was coming in short pants, trying to keep down your reaction as the familiar feeling of stitches began to start. You swallowed thickly and tried to shut your eyes, but a larger hand was smacking your cheek, Brock’s voice cutting into the harsh static with a _'stay the fuck with us, don’t pass out on us again’_.

The worst part about the concussion, besides the nagging pain in your eye, is the fact that you have a habit of losing track of time. You don’t know how long you hang off of the bed, don’t register Brock talking and trying to pull you up. You press harder into the bed and he lets out a soft groan, his hands disappearing from you. It feels like a ghost of a touch and your eyes zone in on the pattern of the rug that’s near the bed. The red diamond shape has your utmost attention and you can’t tell if it’s been five minutes or an hour; your mind just zones out completely until black sock clad feet come in front of your vision and Brock goes down on his knees.

“Hey, hey you in there still?” His voice is careful around the edges so that he doesn’t startle you. Your eyes carefully move from the spot and up to his eyes, your body feeling odd and heavy as you furrow your brows in confusion. A small relieved look floods over his face and he lets out a slow breath, carefully hooking his arms underneath your own. “There she is. C'mon, lets get you back into bed properly.”

You let him move you, kind of like you’re a pliant puppet ready to be played with. The thought almost has you laughing but your mind goes blank again and you can only stare at Brock as he snaps in front of your face. You hear him swear under his breath before he grabs your jaw, trying to get your eyes to hone in on his own. It works after a few tries of you pushing yourself, and a small apologetic look comes onto your features. “How bad is it? Do you do this all day?”

There’s a tone of apprehension and worry in his voice, and you feel bad for the fact that he has to take care of you. It’s a weakness that you don’t like, and you hate that you allowed yourself to get injured. You’re always better than that on missions, always better than that at training, but you have to accept that sometimes that shit just happens even if it’s the least thing you want to accept. You run your fingers through your hair and shrug your shoulders, averting your eyes because it’s better than seeing the worrying in his. “I mean, most of the time. It’s part of it though. I’ll be fine.”

Brock’s dealt with concussions before, has had a few of his own and knows that everyone’s different. It doesn’t stop him from wanting to reach out and protect you, especially when it comes to you being at your worse. Any other day you’re more than willing to try and kick his ass, but this is different and he lets out a soft sigh, pressing his forehead against yours. “I’ll set up a new doctors appointment, see if it’s improving at all.”

A small groan leaves your lips and you bat hard at his chest, barely jarring him as he steels himself against the blows. “I don’t want to go to another doctor! It’s only been a few weeks, fuck Rumlow, let me _heal_.”

Brock lets out a soft, frustrated sigh and you bite down on your lip. You try to shove him hard but his hands are around your wrists and he pushes them back down, a patient look on his face. It infuriates you more and you stare at him. A soft laugh escapes him before he rolls his eyes and pushes himself back until his ass is against the bed. “You’re worse than a toddler when you can’t beat someone’s ass.”

“It’s bullshit! He should’ve never had the upper hand on me!” A frustrated breath leaves your lips and you cross your arms against your chest. There’s a throbbing that’s starting in your temple again and you resist the urge to rub at your eyes like you normally do when you’re frustrated. Brock reaches out and grabs your wrist, seeing the familiar twitch beneath the skin. His fingers gingerly run along your veins, and you let out a careful breath. “I hate being on bed rest. Being around here just makes me jumpy.”

“I’d say we could spare an agent, but that seems a little overbearing for an organization that isn’t supposed to know what the fuck we’re doing.” Brock’s eyebrow cocks at you and you smile a bit, shaking your head slightly.

“I don’t need anyone, promise. I’ll be fine. I just…it feels like someone’s watching me. Maybe it’s just because the swellings gone down finally.” Sighing, you rest your head back against the headboard and close your eyes. For a minute, you let yourself get lost in the small warmth of his fingertips massaging at your wrist. There’s a faint bruise at the side from a punch you threw that went south during the fight. He takes care when he comes across it, and you let out a small noise of approval.

You feel the bed shift and his lips are against your forehead again, soft and insistent, and you crack a slight smile at that. “You’ll be back to kickin’ Rollins’ ass in no time, kiddo.”

“It’s not soon enough,” you mumble back, defeat in your voice as you allow yourself to rest back against the headboard. The fight’s been sucked out of you; those few punches have left you exhausted and you want to just curl up and go back to sleep. It’s this awkward phase that you’re in, and you hate that Brock has to sit there and just watch you because you can’t be alone right now.

Letting out a soft whine, you wind your arms around his neck and place a quick kiss against his lips. “Let’s have sex.”

A real laugh actually falls from Brock’s lips then, his head tipping back slightly and a grin on his lips. “You’re fuckin’ crazy. You can barely even push me and keep your eyes open without hurling over the side of the bed, and you want me to fuckin’ pound you into the mattress?”

His voice raises an octave and he’s grabbing you around the middle, pulling you close despite your halfhearted protests. “Go to sleep, kiddo. Seriously, you’ve lost it and you’re delirious.”

##  __

##  _****** _

Two weeks later and your wrists are tapped up to your gloves, heading into the ring with a smirk on your face. It’s this little moment of victory before Brock blows up and Rollins is going to have to settle him down. Jenner looks up at you with disapproval, but you roll your eyes at him and ignore the igniting pain that starts from the simple movement. Your eye is yellowing around the edges and it hurts to blink even, but you’ve got the form forged and you’re ready to go. You _have_ to go because if you don’t starting training again soon, then you’re going to lose your _shit_.

The moment lasts for a whole minute before Brock’s head turns as he enters the Hydra issued gym. His eyebrow is cocked and Rollins is looking between you two bemused. “Get the fuck out of there. You aren’t even fuckin’ cleared.”

“I’m clear boss,” you quip back and rest against the ropes of the ring. It sags with your weight but holds it, sturdy and something to focus on as Brock stares you down. There’s this protective edge to his eyes, one that he rarely ever shows within the boundaries of Hydra. Having connections is dangerous; this whole thing is dangerous but neither of you want to have that conversation with headquarters. Hydra isn’t about the connection; it’s about expendable soldiers.

Rollins holds up the form at his shoulder line, Brock’s eyes snapping to his as a dark look slips over his features. There’s so many emotions changing in him and you’re not sure which one to actually trust. He storms forward and snatches it from Rollins, nearly ripping it at the edges. Rollins barks out a laugh and Brock glowers at him over small sheet of paper. His eyes scan it quickly before he glances back at you. Pushing it back at Rollins, he grabs his gloves from the bench on the way to the ring.

A certain amount of adrenaline rushes through your veins; you haven’t been in the ring in a month and you’re more than ready to just step up and say fuck everything and throw yourself into it. You push your mouth guard into your mouth, your eyebrow rising slightly at the dark look in Rumlow’s eyes. He’s not playing around anymore; this isn’t the one who will sit in the bedroom for hours on end watching animal documentaries. This is the Brock Rumlow that Hydra has trained to perfection, ready to strike out and show you order through pain.

Rumlow’s trained to look for weaknesses; he always has been. He’s not the perfect soldier without knowing how to figure that out, and his eyes sweep your body as you straighten up for a moment before dropping into your normal stance. His own hands come up and he’s pulling a sharp jab left. It hits your shoulder on the way of your dodge, and pain explodes throughout your body.  You resist the urge to vocalize and grit your teeth harder into your mouth guard. By no means is Brock ever easy on you, but that punch hurt like a mother fucker and you’re torn between being hurt and angry.

You lash out, your right jab aiming for his left temple but winding up with your back down hard on the mat. Rumlow’s on you in seconds, hips straddling your own as he brings his left down into your jaw hard. The pain that slips up then is entirely too much and the world explodes in bright lights around you. It’s a hit that you’ve taken a hundred times before, that always has you playing dirty and kneeing at Brock’s balls until you get the upper hand. You’ve had to pay for that one too many times before, but it’s nothing to complain about.

This is entirely too much though, and you quickly try to scramble out from underneath him. Brock  bares his full weight down on you for a moment before your eyes are staring at him frantically. He’s read that look entirely too many times over the past month and something in him twists. He gets up and watches as you stumble out of the ring, tripping on the way as your vision blurs and you grip the rope desperately to hold yourself upright. You barely make it to the garbage can before you’re throwing up, your entire body trembling violently at the sensation.

You can hear the murmurs starting up around the gym as humiliation starts to creep up into your stomach. You’re breathing heavily and everything is unstable, but you can hear Cline in the far left corner making a betting pool on when you’ll be charged as ineffective by Pierce. You’ve worked too hard and too long for this, and you’re about to bite back when a loud voice to your left stops you.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see any of you other mother fuckers getting pistol whipped and forced into recovery. Your sorry asses were cowering against the wall waiting for a fuckin’ jet.” Rollins glances over at you, worry evident in his features and you feel absolutely exhausted. Your entire body is aching and the room keeps swapping between blurry and clear. You sag against the tarmac slightly, feeling it cut into your back as you swallow thickly.

Strong arms are hoisting you back to your feet, a strong hand wrapping around the back of your neck. A small wince slips onto your features as you allow Rumlow to lead you back towards the locker room, closing the door loudly behind you and putting a physical barrier between you and the rest of the team.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” Rumlow stares at you in utter disbelief, carefully helping you down onto the floor. Your stomach churns again and you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, trying to push it back. “You could’ve just seriously injured yourself out there. Does that mean fuckin’ nothing to you?!”

“I’m a part of this fucking team, Brock. I need to fucking train. I’m fine.” It’s said through gritted teeth and you pull in a shaky breath through your nose. The scent of sweat and metal fills your senses and you wince once more. The bright lights are making the aching in your head worse, and you only relent slightly when it’s blocked by a larger body squatting down in front of you.

“What part of this feels like it’s fine?” There’s a bite to his tone and you carefully glance up. Your body is protesting it and there’s this certain protective nature that’s hidden in his features. He can let his walls down slightly; the team isn’t here to see it. “You can’t even take a punch like you have a million times before.”

“Fuck off,” you grit out, forcing your body up and forcing the bile down. Rumlow lets out a frustrated breath, and then his hands are cupping the sides of your face. A small noise slips from your mouth before you can stop it. He leans forward and presses a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Stop it. Stop fighting healing.”

“You heard them,” you growl out, trying to stand up but being forced back down with strong hands. “Pierce is going to decommission me. You _know_ what happens.”

“You’re not. I told him you’re getting better.” There’s a small tone in his voice that you don’t hear often, and that’s fear. He’s not insane; he knows what happens if you’re not getting your ass back out there and back out there soon. Hydra is full of high tech soldiers who are mercenaries and ready to get the job done. If they can’t do that, then they aren’t a use to the team. Those who can’t handle it and who have been on the inside get used for the Asset and his training. If a soldier comes back from that metal arm filled beating, it’s considered a miracle. It’s a way to weed out the weak and you know it is; you and Rumlow had accepted that the second you joined Hydra.

Your eyes avert from his, a sickening feeling slipping into your body as you carefully pull in a breath. Brock grabs the back of your neck, giving it a firm squeeze as he tries to catch your eyes. “I will _never_ let that be your fate.”

 

##  _****** _

Two weeks go by and you’re healing is going much slower than anyone wants to admit; that’s mainly for the fact that Rollins and Rumlow will rip them a new one if they even attempt to mention it. Bed rest is horrible and you’re constantly trying to get in the gym, but Rumlow is always there to block your way and send you back. The rumors are flaring up more and in higher demand, and each time Rumlow comes home you can see this edge to him, one that you hadn’t seen before.

You’re barely awake when you see him shoving your clothes into a duffle bag as it’s nearing three in morning. You wince a bit as the bedside lights on and shift, trying to pull the covers up over your eyes to block it all out. Brock stiffens as he sees you move and he carefully sits up, smiling a bit over at you and blocking the light with the width of his shoulder. “Hey, hey get up…”

“It’s three in the morning,” you groan out in protest, your body aching as Brock carefully tugs the blankets down. You squint at him in the dim room and he gives you a slight smile. Leaning forward, he presses his lips to yours soft and persistent, keeping up the act until you relent and smile, tugging your head away from his as he chuckles. “Why do I have to get up?”

There’s this guarded look in his eyes and he presses his thumb to the back of your neck softly. Your eyes flutter and you can’t tell if it’s from the sensation or because you’re tired as hell and just want to go back to sleep. “Rollins is going to take you to a recovery cabin. You’ll have better access to therapy and doctors there.”

Your eyes open then and he gives you a small smile, one that’s too small for even Brock on his worst of days. He leans forward and presses another kiss to your forehead before letting out a small sigh and biting at his lip a little. “Now get dressed and ready to go kiddo, okay? Five minutes.”

Nodding your head, you carefully get up and head over to your closet, grabbing a few things before heading into the bathroom. Brock watches you the entire time until you disappear, his fingers moving their way through his hair as he lets out a slow breath. Grabbing the duffle, he heads into the living room where Rollins is seated, staring up at him with utter curiosity in his features.

“She’s going to kill you when she finds out. The sorry thing actually loves you, you know. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she realizes that she was nothing to you, that this was all Hydra. For a second though, hiding her from the Asset, you’d think that you actually give a shit.” A small smile slips onto his features as he grabs the duffle from Brock. Brock’s eyes go steely and Rollins stares for a moment before it starts to sink in. “This…you actually… _oh_.”

“Why the fuck do you think I’m doing this?” Brock hisses out before shoving the duffle harder into Rollins’ chest. Jack relents slightly and lets his body stumble backwards for a moment before he heads out to the car, waiting for you and giving you and Brock the moment that you both deserve.

You come out out of the bathroom five minutes later and head into the living room, the drowsy feeling not leaving you as Brock smiles slightly at you. He pulls you into his chest, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before hugging you tightly. “Your recovery is going to go awesome there, I promise.”

Your arms wrap around his waist and you take in the scent of his cologne. There’s something off about the moment, about the way Brock holds you tighter to his chest like everything is going to go to hell. You merely nudge your way into his neck before he kisses your temple, carefully pulling you back and mustering up a smile.

“Go on then. You know how impatient Jack gets when he’s late for something.” You chuckle and nod, stepping back from Brock and heading toward the door. You glance behind you, giving him a small smile that he returns, before the door is shut and that overwhelming feeling of being alone surrounds you.

Rollins just honks the horn and gives you a wide grin, and you carefully get in the car, your eyes not leaving the shadow of the man in the window.


End file.
